


use your hands and my spare time

by pirateygoodness



Series: this can’t last forever (kiss me one more time) [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fingerfucking, Friends With Benefits, No Strings Attached, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 07:06:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10736640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirateygoodness/pseuds/pirateygoodness
Summary: She’s still fine, and she’s not talking about it. But Nate’s still out of commission, and Sara’sthereand Amaya’s see the way she looks at other women, has heard the jokes and the stories from the team about her not-infrequent conquests.Release. That’s all Amaya’s looking for. (Post-ep to S2.14, "Moonshot")





	use your hands and my spare time

Time traveling seems to be one part actual time travel, three parts crisis management. Every week it seems like there’s some new disaster to weather, some new horror they need to avert. Amaya finds it exhausting. At least during the war, the Justice Society acknowledged that they were going to be dealing with one emergency after another. 

And through it all is Sara. Sara, who still walks as though she always has everything under control, but Amaya notices the way that the swagger of her hips and the set of her shoulders grow less confident by the day. Sara, who despite her apparent disdain for emotional entanglements notices every microexpression from every member of her crew. Yet another maddening contrast between the professionalism of the Justice Society and the Waverider’s bizarrely personal environment. 

Sara notices when Amaya starts to wear stress, despite the fact that Amaya would prefer to keep it to herself.

(But then, how could she not show it, just a little bit. She’s seen her village burn, seen her friends and family pulled out of houses as shells of themselves. She’s seen Nate cry himself hoarse over his grandfather and put him to bed, weeping.)

(She’s gone to her own bedroom to cry herself to sleep, alone. Nobody seems to have remembered that Nate isn’t the only one of them who lost a friend in Hank Heywood.)

(Amaya’s spent nights alone, staring at the ceiling, trying to forget hours of missions, side by side, trusting in Hank’s steady eye and cool head. Trying not to remember being that brash, confident girl from Zambesi who leapt at the chance to be chosen. Or the way her heart leapt when Hank Heywood shook her hand, and told her he was glad to have her on the team. Those are all Amaya’s memories to bear.)

Sara asks how Amaya’s doing when her brow starts to furrow, when her shoulders start to tense with the weight of it all. Amaya parries, replies with, “I’m fine.” 

She’s always fine, because she’s a professional and this is a job. Sara’s her captain, not her counsellor, not her friend. Amaya’s emotions aren’t any of Sara’s business, as long as she can keep her hand steady and do the work. 

But Sara asks her, every day. Sometimes more than that, and it makes Amaya feel something she’s not sure she has the words to name. She asks Amaya up until the day that she ends up standing in Sara’s quarters, not sure why her feet have led her there. 

She’s not - she’s still fine, and she’s not talking about it. But Nate’s still out of commission, and Sara’s _there_ and Amaya’s see the way she looks at other women, has heard the jokes and the stories from the team about her not-infrequent conquests.

Release. That’s all Amaya’s looking for. 

“Can I help you?” Sara says. She’s dressed in casual clothes, sitting on the bed, and there’s a tray of knives in front of her, each one barely longer than Sara’s fingers. She’s sharpening them, one by one, with practiced hands. 

Amaya sits down and takes a knife from the tray, balances it between her thumb and index finger. She can feel the point start to sink into her skin, rearranges to hold it properly before she draws blood. Sara keeps her knives in good order; Amaya respects that. “I don’t want to talk about my feelings,” she says. 

Sara shrugs. “Okay.” 

“I think we should have sex.” 

Sara goes very still. She finishes sharpening the knife she’s got in hand, one last stroke of the blade against steel, before she puts both tools back in their place. “I see.”

There’s a searching look in Sara’s eyes. Amaya can almost see her working out the mental calculus, weighing concern with her own interest. But it’s not - she doesn’t need to be _concerned._ Nate may think he’s sly when it comes to the two of them, but casual sex existed well before 1942 and she’s a warrior who knows her own body and what it needs. What her body needs is release. Just to get her head sitting a little straighter.

She tries to explain, and Sara watches her, wordlessly. 

“I thought you had some pretty strong opinions about teammates getting attached,” she finally says. Her voice is carefully neutral, but she’s also putting away her knives, setting the box down on the floor. 

Amaya nods. “I don’t have feelings for you, Captain. And I’m perfectly capable of separating sex from emotional entanglement. Are you?”

She juts her chin out just a little, defiantly. She’s being a little rude, daring Sara to take her up on her offer, but Sara seems like the type to respond to that. 

Amaya’s not wrong - Sara’s pupils dilate the smallest bit, and her eyes grow a little unfocused, sliding away from her face. 

“I am,” Sara says. “This just seems like it’s a little - are you sure you’re okay?”

Amaya sighs. “I already told you, I don’t want to talk about feelings.” 

Sara shrugs, says, “As long as you’re sure.” 

Amaya doesn’t want to keep talking. She just wants to _act_. She’s staring at Sara’s chest, at the rest of her, _wanting_. Something in her expression must speak to Sara, because the next thing Sara does is to rise up on her knees and pull Amaya in close. 

They don’t kiss. Kissing is for people who care about each other. 

Amaya presses her mouth to Sara’s throat, breathes in her scent and feels the warm tap of Sara’s pulse against her lips. She’ll kiss her there, mouth and tongue working until Sara’s skin is pink, blood rushing to the surface. She kisses even more, trailing up to the space behind Sara’s ear, where the muscles of her neck meet her skull. Sara’s skin marks purple there, and Amaya takes advantage, working her mouth over and over until she hears a gasp, feels Sara’s nails sharp against her shoulders. 

She tears herself away, her mouth releasing Sara’s skin with a soft, wet sound that makes them both shiver. Sara looks well and truly invested in this, now, eyes dark and expression full of purpose. Amaya can hear the harshness of Sara’s breath, the way she’s half-panting. It’s a few moments before she notices that her own breath is ragged to match. 

Sara clutches at her shoulders, mirroring Amaya. They sit, forehead to forehead, regarding each other. Amaya won’t kiss Sara first, and Sara appears to be following her lead, holding back. 

Sara licks her lips, meets Amaya’s eyes. She reaches for the hem of Amaya’s shirt and starts lifting it up, exposing skin. She’s moving so _slowly_ , watching Amaya carefully, like she’s waiting for Amaya to change her mind. 

Her attention has the opposite effect: Amaya’s body is suddenly _ready_ , the cool air as Sara exposes skin sending shivers that terminate right between her legs. Her thighs, her abdomen, her breasts, suddenly feel impossibly sensitive and she’s aware of all of it, seemingly at once. She sighs, whispers, “Yes.”

“You sure?” Sara murmurs. She’s got Amaya’s shirt lifted all the way to her neck, so she’s mostly addressing Amaya’s breasts, but her eyes are still cautious as they take her in. 

“Sure you need to stop asking,” Amaya says, and helps Sara take her shirt and brassiere right off. 

Sara dives forward and takes one of Amaya’s breasts in her mouth. She laughs, and Amaya can’t tell if it’s in reply to what she’s said or from the sheer fun of this, but all that _matters_ is the way the vibration of it rumbles across her skin. Her breasts have always been sensitive, and now they feel even more so. She’s acutely aware of Sara’s breath, of the interplay between lips and tongue and teeth and the way Sara’s using them along her skin. 

Sara nuzzles at her sternum, at the space between Amaya’s breasts, and then moves from one side to the other. She uses her mouth skillfully, nipping and tonguing until Amaya feels bruised, oversensitive. Until she’s whimpering, and her entire focus narrows to the physical, to her cunt and her breasts and the tickle of Sara’s hair against her skin. This is what she wanted: to exist, to not need to _think_ , for a little while. 

Sara starts to bring her mouth lower, kissing and suckling at the skin of Amaya’s upper abdomen. 

“I know I’m not supposed to ask you about your feelings,” Sara murmurs, once she makes it to the neighbourhood of her navel. “But how do you feel about oral?”

“Strongly toward the positive,” Amaya sighs. She feels her inner walls flutter eagerly at the thought of it, tries to fight the urge to squirm. 

Sara laughs again. She pauses for a moment, reaching for the hair tie at her wrist and pulling her hair into a ponytail. Amaya feels it, tickling movements across her skin that leave goosebumps.

Sara stands and unbuttons Amaya’s jeans, pulls them and her underwear off with sure movements that make Amaya shiver. This was a good idea. This was a fantastic idea. 

She kneels near the edge of the bed, quirks her eyebrow at Amaya. Her intention is fairly clear, and Amaya’s more than happy to oblige; she slides until her knees are hanging off the edge of the bed, behind Sara’s back. The last thing she sees of Sara’s face is a hungry smile, and then she’s leaning in and Amaya’s head hits the mattress. She feels Sara nuzzling, working her way in between Amaya’s lips, and then she can’t really tell what’s happening except that it’s very, very nice. 

Amaya’s had her share of partners, mostly men, and they haven’t offered this sort of thing very often. None of them have ever matched what’s happening with Sara between her thighs. She’s _great_ at this, her tongue skating across Amaya’s folds with a deftness that leaves her seeing stars, makes her slick against Sara’s chin. 

Her hands fist into the sheets, as she begins to feel her orgasm build. She cries out, lost in the fluttering high inside her cunt. She starts to feel that familiar tension, increasing and narrowing to the spot where her cunt meets Sara’s mouth. Before long, she’s lost in the warm flutter of release, her body clenching against nothing, hips grinding instinctively against that mouth, that touch, that keeps bringing shudder after shudder from her. 

Sara’s fingers are digging into her thighs, pressing hard enough to leave marks and Amaya realizes only after a few minutes that she’s grinding too hard, tries to relax herself and notices the answering release in the pressure of Sara’s hands. 

She feels good. She feels clear-headed, even-tempered, settled. “Oh,” she sighs. “Thank you.” 

She can feel Sara smile against her, before she leans away, easing Amaya’s legs off of her shoulders. “Anytime,” Sara says, standing. 

Amaya manages to sit, quickly enough that she can wrap her legs around Sara’s waist, keeping her close. Her mouth is shiny with Amaya’s slick and her pupils are huge and dark and it’s not difficult to read the hunger in her expression.

“What can I do for you?” she asks. 

She looks up, staring at the curve of Sara’s breasts and beyond that, her eyes. Amaya can see that mind working - more calculus, weighing the balance of this - but it’s not long before Sara gives up. She inhales deeply, holds it a moment before allowing herself a stuttering exhale. “You’re not the only one who could use some release,” she says, softly, arousal rough at the edges of her voice. 

“Alright,” Amaya says. 

She reaches for the hem of Sara’s shirt, but Sara beats her to it, slides it off in one swift movement. Her underwear is more feminine than Amaya had expected; her brassiere made of soft peach fabric, white lace. It’s an interesting contrast with the strength visible in her abdomen, in her arms as she pulls Amaya toward her. 

Amaya reaches to Sara’s back, undoing the hook she finds there and letting Sara shrug herself free. She’s beautiful, even Amaya can appreciate that. She watches, rapt, as Sara settles herself on her back. Watches the way the shape of her breasts changes, the way they flatten against gravity. She licks her lips as she follows. 

It’s the first time she’s ever had another woman’s breasts to herself, like this. Sara’s skin is so soft, and Amaya can’t help but marvel at it, at the contrast between Sara’s warrior’s hands and the tenderness that exists here, right over her heart. Her nipples are gathered tight, firm and responsive under Amaya’s tongue as she laps at them, delights in the way that her mouth can make Sara tense and sigh. She allows herself the opportunity to play, to explore every inch of flesh, until Sara groans and fists a hand in her hair.  
“Amaya,” she says, tight-voiced. Like she’s desperate - like she _needs_ this.

Amaya understands need. 

She unbuttons Sara’s jeans and waits as Sara slides out of them, makes herself just as naked as Amaya. They align themselves, resting nose to nose. Sara looks expectant, pupils blown dark. Amaya has to ask. “What do you want me to -“ she begins. 

Before she can finish, Sara’s guiding her hand in between her legs and now it’s Amaya’s turn to gasp. Sara’s cunt is warmer than she’d expected, almost hot to touch, and when she slides an exploratory finger in between her lips it’s nothing but slick, heavy wet. Sara sighs, lets her legs fall open. 

Amaya just gets to touch. It takes her a few moments to get used to it, to orient herself to the folds and curves, to find the small bundle of firm flesh that must be Sara’s clitoris. Her fingertips are tentative at first, but it’s not long before she works out the way that Sara likes to be touched, the pressure she needs to provide. She rubs small circles and watches as Sara’s chest flushes, as her eyes slide shut and she presses her hands against the top of her bunk, her whole upper body an arc of tension. Amaya just wants to help her, to let her find release. 

“How can I help?” she whispers. 

Sara frowns. Her mouth opens and shuts, wordlessly, before she manages to stutter, “ _Fuck me._ ”

Even seven decades apart, that phrase is universal. Amaya understands immediately, slides her fingers down from Sara’s clit to the slickest part of her. Her fingers all but slip inside, one and then two, and Sara groans. Amaya can feel her clench, can’t help but marvel as Sara bends her knees and slides her hips down the bed, burying Amaya’s fingers to the knuckle. 

She chances a third finger, pressing it tentatively against Sara’s entrance, stretching gently. Sara groans in response, wriggles her hips until Amaya adds it, giving her more girth. She works into her, sliding her fingers out to Sara’s entrance and then sliding them home, letting her hips find a rhythm. Sara’s still all tension, but the feel of Amaya’s fingers inside is clearly helping, letting things build. After a while, Amaya offers a fourth finger, everything but her thumb sliding into Sara and the _sound_ she makes is so primal that Amaya feels her own cunt twitch in reply. 

Sara starts to fuck herself, grinding down on Amaya’s hand, crying out every time Amaya fills her up. She can actually _feel_ Sara’s orgasm, the snap of her inner walls beginning to contract in time with Sara’s cries. 

This may not be something she has _feelings_ about, not in the classical sense, but it doesn’t mean she can’t appreciate it. Sara in the throes of her orgasm is something wonderful, wild and open and beautiful to be near. 

It’s a surprisingly long while before the last flutters of Sara’s orgasm subside, and a few moments more before she’s still enough for Amaya to slide her fingers out of her. “Jesus,” Sara whispers to the ceiling, huffing out a laugh. 

“You’re telling me,” Amaya says. 

Sara smiles at her, meets her eyes for exactly the appropriate amount of time before rolling off of the bunk. She starts searching through her clothes, and while she busies herself, Amaya crosses the room to the sink. She washes Sara off of her hand, tries not to notice the way that it smells like her sex.

When she returns to the bed, Sara’s lounging, half-dressed in a sweatshirt and no underwear, curled drowsily into herself. Amaya can’t resist reaching out to stroke her hair, once. Sara smiles. “You sure there’s nothing you want to talk about?”

“Very,” Amaya says. Somehow the conversation feels easier now, more relaxed. Maybe that has something to do with the sated smile on Sara’s face, and the way Amaya still feels the haze of her orgasm around the edges of everything. 

Sara shrugs. “Well, you know where I’ll be,” she says. “If you ever decide you want to.” 

Amaya can’t help but laugh - at the ridiculousness of her life, at all of this, at the way Sara’s looking at her like she means anything but _talk._ “Believe me, Captain,” she says. “You’ll be the first to know.”


End file.
